WNW pulls on his powdered chaps, full pants being too rough for his tender arse. Sunlight silvers the campsite cold. Kitty is still glazed over.

“Kitty-baby,” cooing as coo as he can through whiskey’d husk, “wake up, sweetface.”

Her palms in front of her eyes before the sun are bruised and the branch paddles still crossed through her cleavage. “Waaaaaaaaylon, hand me doze corpses.”

“What?! Arise, girl, that gold ain’t goan strike tself.”

“M’need m’corpus.”

He empties the matutinal bath bucket into her face. “Z’yore turn to git pannin’, Kitty. Now, start making sense!”

Kitty sits upright. “Corn. Pones.”

“Eureka!”